Her hallway
is dark, guarded by angry,
mechanical doors with thin glass insides.
They part by swipe of a card, opening
opposite each other, and pause.
Machine crickets. Respirators flood the ears.
Eyes travel the mundane blue and tan tile floor,
ceiling lights cast a reflection median.
Run screaming before they close.
Fast. This is the road to life.
**
Ashley
remembers climbing through the window,
calling for help, pain from the heart down,
she knew then.
The daughter, the friend, the wife, the mother
opens her eyes, searching faces for answers.
She rips back the sheets, frantic
hands arcing the stitches
Where’s my baby?
**
Corbin
did not appear injured
having saved his mother
at only 22 weeks old.
He deserves a proper funeral
but first, they’ll have to name him.
**
The Nurse
has a chocolate milk complexion,
mahogany hair pulled tightly in a bun.
Her petite scrubs multi-colored
with children’s patterns, though she’s twenty-something.
She’s composed mostly of 3-ring binders
tucked under her chin, wobbling against her chest.
Her left hand grasps a Grande Starbucks
coffee cup. Her greatest tragedy
would be to drop it.
**
Heaven’s Floor
The news you hear in hospitals worsens as you go up…
3rd floor sugarcoats
5th floor hints extreme blood loss
7th floor warns of internal damage
11th floor admits only 72 hours to live.
We cannot go any higher.
**
The Speaker
has a photographic memory
and opts not to see the baby
for she already cannot escape.
Instead, she leaves at midnight
after scribbling on the back
of an old envelope.
Stands dead center
on an elevator rug, blood red,
its printed message:
Have a Pleasant Wednesday.
**
Dinner with the Beaver Family
We sit together,
recall dreams we remember,
finding common threads.
**
Mrs. Beaver
longs in her dreams to go home
to the house in the city
they lived in when she was five.
Longed so long she went back
sixty years later,
told the current owner her story,
asked if she could look around.
The house she returned to
was full of silverfish and rotten wood
swallowed by a forgotten city
of filthy streets.
The dreams died after that.
**
My Mother-in-law, Jane
is 65 years old
but wants to be on a constant move.
Her husband, Freddie, retired years ago
only to sit down content,
so our house and spending time with us
is their vacation.
Before she comes to visit,
she dyes her hair orange from a box,
hoping we’ll notice.
She can never remember
if we keep the bathroom door open
or shut but knows exactly
where our chocolate is.
At the movies she sits by me
because this is a chick-flick
and that’s what we are— chicks.
She jabs my arm to make sure I see the funny parts,
breathes asthmatic through her mouth,
picks at her cuticles,
grasps popcorn in her paw,
eating one piece at a time,
coughing bits onto my sleeve.
42 pokes and a popcorn shower later,
we say our good-byes.
Freddie is driving but she guarantees
she won’t be asleep when they get home
though her eyes are already closed.
**
Dog Lady
is already walking up the hill,
her flowered skirt blowing in the breeze,
eyes smiling through wide wraparound sunglasses
as she waves wildly in your direction.
She rocks back and forth on orthopedic shoes
and talks to your dog, hands clasped
behind her back, thin whips of short brown hair
escaping her toboggan.
She doesn’t know what kind of doggy she should get…
15 minutes later, I tell her we need to go in,
she’s disappointed but turns to walk back
to her bare house
dragging an empty leash behind her.
**
Mr. Beaver
mumbles he dreams about nothing.
Hurt by this, his wife asks
why he cannot dream of her.
He shrugs slowly, smiles slightly,
scratches his brow.
Probably ‘cause I’m awake to you
the rest of the time.
**
Brother Beaver
hasn’t spoken to his sibling in years.
He’s married, lives an hour south,
has a son of his own and works security.
doesn’t remember that day,
the color of the carpet, how the sun cast
through broken shades or how old he was.
He doesn’t dream about the moment
he snatched Baby Beaver’s childhood away.
**
Baby Beaver
grumbles in his sleep.
I roll over to watch him -
his right arm twitches,
hands tense into white fists.
His eyebrows arch and narrow,
muscles jerk as he explodes No!
His eyes never open.
He once told me he dreamt only of
rape, murder, turmoil.
He doesn’t speak of them.
At breakfast, I ask softly
if he had a bad dream.
He cannot remember
wonders why I ask…
**
The Gift
When asked to forgive
you are given the power
to be more godlike.
**
With or Without
The porch light is never left on
The DVR records only sports
Coupons clutter the counter
Beer bottles fill the recycling bin
New carpet stains appear everyday
The garage reeks of rotted sweatpants.
No kisses from the couch would greet me
Dinner won’t surprise me by being ready
I’d have to come home to let the dog out
Cologne wouldn’t deodorize the hallway
The dishwasher would never be emptied
Spiders would boldly roam the walls
I would never call this house home.
**
Diary Entry Found
I am fabulous
but truly forgettable;
this is not who I am.
**
Born to
Walking past a parlor window
I saw a symbol that meant “Born to lose.”
Baffled, I went inside to ask
if people actually paid to get that inked.
Yes, he said,
Before tattooed on body, tattooed on mind.
**
I dreamed of Zombies
with blood dripping teeth
blue veined skin, wandering red eyes
that sought me out.
They jumped fences in one, long,
awkward stride ran across barren fields.
I would pin myself between the closet door
and wall able to hear them breathing outside.
They wandered my neighborhood streets, burned
my house down once, appeared in windows.
I’d wake up at the cusp of being found
like hiding in a washing machine, waking
as it pulled back the white lid.
I used to have these dreams often.
This morning, my mind was clear
I realized, I hadn’t dreamt of zombies
in weeks —
since my dad’s heart surgery.
He’s so pale now.
**
From: myra@nomadaquatic.com
Sent: Sunday, September 27th, 2009 8:01AM
To: steve@nomadaquatic.com
Subject: Matters of the Heart
Babe,
I am emailing you from Jen’s blackberry because I do not have anything to write on. You were just rolled into surgery. I cannot believe that it all came to this, after you did not even want me to go with you to your stress test last week.
The kids think it is funny that I’ve been sleeping in the hospital bed, not you. I know now why you prefer the recliner. You’re right; it keeps adjusting and deflating throughout the night. I know it is to prevent bed sores, but I can’t help but think I am going to slide right into the floor.
We haven’t slept much the past couple of days. I have tried to log this week’s happenings inside the cover of the book I brought. The book is called, Matters of the Heart.
I tried to make you laugh before they wheeled you away today. I’m not used to you being so somber and serious. You apologized and went to sleep. As the silver automatic doors closed behind you, I couldn’t help but worry about your new heart. I hope you still remember that you love me but I can make you fall in love with me all over again if I need to. I’m afraid it will be like the movie, 50 First Dates.
Anyway, I am at peace this morning. They say the surgery will take about 4 ½ hours. Remember, no “ifs” only “when.”
I love you, Myra Jean
————————————————————————————
No virus found. Version: 8.14.1969 / Virus Database: 9.23.2009/58 – Release Date: 9/27/2009
**
My Daddy, after Bypass Surgery
Plastic friction cough,
orange disinfectant toes,
deep in morphine sleep.
**
Ultrasound
Your oldest daughter hands
you a folded piece of paper.
Your eyes dart from face to face,
your smile widens.
Your arthritic fingers fumble
to open it, you see the dark circle
in the photograph, scream in delight.
You hug them both, amazed at what you just saw.
Mandy stands with her husband,
both confused by your reaction.
When you asked, When did you find out?
it all became clear.
She can’t meet your eyes,
wishes she could give you that too today,
not just a front loading washer and dryer.
**
Fortune cookie
When mom cracked hers open,
she read with a smile,
“A pleasant surprise is in store for you soon.”
Excited by the news,
she searched for dad in the office,
read her luck aloud again to him,
hoping he’d make it come true.
She said to me, her daughter, “Define soon.”
Mom and I want to know what dad’s said.
He chuckles because he cannot tell us.
Mom put her hands over her face, laughed
into her palms, her white eye shadow pooling
in the corner of her eyes.
“Why not?”
“I wasn’t paying attention and ate mine.”
**
Real Limit
How many people can you love
before its too much? She asked.
I said,
I don’t think there is any real limit
as long as you don’t care
if they ever loved you back.
**
Appeared in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, April 2012
